Page 11 of Fragile Lives
A few hours later, Justin and Mark are dropped off at their places. I saw a glimpse of Kayla through the window of Justin’s condo, but I sure hope she didn’t see me. I don’t want to lie to her, and I can’t give her an explanation, as it’s not mine to give. We reach Benson’s home well past midnight.
“I’m gonna go to the station tomorrow. It’s my day off, but we have to interview a new hire, and I’m going straight to my parents’ place. I can pick you up on my way if you want.”
“Sounds good. I’m still not quite sure why I was invited,” I say, befuddled. I was somewhat shocked when Alex called me a couple of days ago and said that his stepmother had asked him to invite me over. She doesn’t even know me; why would she want me in her house?
“Because you’re Alex’s friend, and he talks about you. A lot.” Then he pauses. “Alex. Talks a lot.” He raises a brow, letting his words sink in, and I smirk.
“Yeah, that’s new.”
“Exactly,” he replies, taking off his boots. “Mom is impressed. So yeah, you can’t get out of that.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You just wait.” He lets out a tired laugh. “It’s gonna be a mess. My father will make sure to fuck it up. He and Alex don’t get along very well.”
“That I’ve heard.” I don’t add that that’s pretty much all I’ve heard about him.
Alex didn’t really talk about his family much during our years in the Navy because he didn’t consider himself a part of one.I know that his father had an affair with his mother while still married to his current wife. Alex’s mother died when he was a teenager, and he came to live with his father and his family. I believe he just decided to reconcile with them recently, and I’ll bet my left nut it was influenced by his girlfriend Freya. She’s a foster child and wants to have a big family. Good for him.
“But you hadn’t heard about us?” he asks half-hopefully, half-sadly. He already knows the truth.
I smile in response. “A little. I’ve heard about your little sister and brother. Mostly your sister, though.” I don’t know her name, but I don’t say that. On those rare occasions when Alex talked about his family, he mainly mentioned some shenanigans his little sister or brother did. I believe they’re close in age and used to get into trouble at school.
He said she had hero syndrome and wanted to protect every bullied kid starting from kindergarten, and her brother was the one who got his hands dirty when the message wasn’t received. Every time he mentioned her, he called her one of those cute things a brother would call a sister, and I never questioned it. Neither of us liked to talk about home, so we took what either of us was willing to share.
“Figures. Alex adores her.” Then he gives me a pointed look and adds, with a smirk, “Secretly. I think he only tolerated her because I was about the same age, and we didn’t get along, and Aiden, the youngest, was a little shit and pissed everyone off.” He chuckles at some memory, his gaze wavering. “Besides our sis. They did get in trouble together, for sure. Nothing’s changed, by the way—Aiden’s still pissing everyone off.” He chuckles again, sounding oddly affectionate. “It got better, though. You should have seen our first dinner together. What a fucking disaster it was.”
He shakes his head with sad laughter.
“Thank God Freya was there. She always acts like a buffer.”
“You should have seen my family dinners.” I walk to the fridge and pull out two bottles of water.
“Were they bad too?” he asks as I pass him one.
“Bad would be an understatement.” My brows jump as always when my family is mentioned. It’s like a damn tick, I swear. “My mother is a proper British lady. You know, those unrealistic ones you see on TV, where they don’t have any emotions, drink tea twenty-four-seven, and don’t accept any flaws.” I take a sip from the bottle and let out a bitter laugh. “And I’ve got plenty of those.”
“I wondered for a moment if your accent was Australian or something.”
“Nah, British. Eighteen years with my mother left a footprint. I’ve been trying to ditch it, but it appears here and there.” I shrug.
“Makes sense,” he agrees. “What about your dad?”
“He died when I was nineteen.” A lump forms in my throat at the mention of the only person who held me together.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, so I nod, accepting it.
That’s where the conversation dies, and I’m about to walk to the bathroom when Kenneth asks, “Wait, how did you serve in the Navy?”
I turn back to find him looking confused, his brows furrowed.
“My dad was American. Came from old money. I moved with him when I was eighteen.”
“Why wait so long?”
“He didn’t have custody.” I bite back the bitter memories. “When I was old enough to leave, I did.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
